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Arvo Par and existential freedom

on July 14th, 2013 by alive

published jelly fish

Peter, how are you doing? I wish I could actually hear you say those words to me irl. I have heard you say them so many times in the past that sometimes when I write them in my journal it’s like you are here in the room with me. It’s very comforting. You have always been extremely compassionate.  Thank you.

I’m listening to Fur Alina composed by Arvo Par—performed by Alexander Malter. I gave you a CD with him on it when Dr. Stang died.  Its classical minimalistic piano. Par said “if you play one beautiful perfect note that you only need one at a time—they do not need any supporting notes.” I’ve been listening to the same 10 minute piece for 11 years and it still inspires me with awe. Now, my life is in total chaos. Listening to this song is a peaceful oasis—that is when I can get my mind calm enough to hear it.  Sometimes I’ll set my Zune to loop and listen to it for hours while I journal. I thank my lucky stars for every small shimmering penny of hope that comes along.

It’s 11:54 pm. I took my meds about 40 minutes ago. I’m entering my small window of goodness. My restoril is calming me down but my seroquel, lamictal, depakote and haldol have not kicked in yet—when they kick in I’ll have to go to bed. Another shiny penny for me to pick up. My mood stabilizers are working pretty good for me. But my seroquel and haldol are at low doses so my psychotic symptoms are not being managed very well—the doses were lowered because of side effects and seizures. That really sucks because serouel and haldol were my foundation of sanity in the past.

I’ve lost my freedom. I’m escorted by my dad or Richard whenever I leave my parents house. Everybody is afraid I might wonder off or take off running from the people and get lost. Although they are not saying it I know that they are afraid I might get myself into some type of trouble. Most of my money is in my mom’s bank account so I can’t do something stupid like go out and buy crack. My mom doles out my meds to make sure I take them right. They decide when and what I eat.

But, my freedom—I miss it. I’ve always gone my own way—been responsible for myself. Even when I was a child on the streets I was free to go wherever I wanted whenever I wanted to…even if it was to a drug house. Yes, I even miss the freedom of drugs—escaping everything with the help of crack. I know I can’t use it now because my mind is too fragile, but I still dream about the euphoria of a deep hit off the pipe. Everything has been taken from me. There is a little rebel in me that wants to pack a small bag and make a run for it. Of course I don’t know if that is my thought or the thoughts I get from my illness. I have a feeling it’s part of my illness because most days I’m afraid to look out the window—I’d be terrified to be all alone out in the world.

Life is not always fair. Maybe all this is payback for so much of the freedom I had in the beginning of my life. Damn it, I feel like a cornered animal—like I’m being punished. This is a feeling of my own. The feeling of being persecuted by the people, voices, hallucinations is different than being punished. My mom had to fill out some paperwork for my disability. She wrote that I had problems with paranoid delusions about the government and black and white thinking about what is right and wrong. I’m still trying to figure that out because I don’t see that in myself. Of course, if she sees it and yet I’m oblivious to it might be a sign that it might be true—I’m sane enough to realize that. But I still don’t see it.

Peter, what did you see in me? I have not always been this sick. Can you remind me of what it was like to be well—or at least better than what I am now? You always made it sound like I had potential—implying that I had potential to overcome my illness. Were you right? Am I doing something wrong now? I wish you could tell me what to do to get better now. Should I share in your optimism that I’ll recover from my illness? Maybe not totally recover but at least get better? I have so many questions that I wish you could answer.

I miss our time together. You were (and still are) my beacon of hope. When things get bad and I feel hopeless I look to you for hope. You have always carried hope for me. Thank you.

Wow, it only took me 3 days to write this letter. The last one took almost 2 weeks.

I’ll let you go.

Take care,

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